Canadian National

“Now, little man, you have one chance to talk.” The big, burly man swung his chair around so it was backward, then sat, rested his chin on his arms and gazed at Scott with frank eyes. He was holding a knife with a long, wickedly-curved blade. “If you decide not to take that chance, I’ll have to start shedding blood.”

Scott glared balefully at him. “I’m a Canadian National and I have rights. Let me go.”

The man smiled faintly, and something about his expression was dangerous. “What makes you think we’re in Canada, or that I give a damn about your rights?”

“Even if we’re not in Canada, what you’re doing is criminal, and when Interpol finally catches up with you, the result won’t be pretty.” Scott set his jaw stubbornly. He refused to be afraid of this monster. By now his brothers had noticed he was gone, and they were smart enough to go to the police.

The man tilted his head to the side and considered. “If they do catch up to me, then maybe what happens won’t be pretty, but internationals are so tame these days. What won’t be pretty, however, is what I’m going to do for you if you don’t give me the information I want.”

“I don’t have any information,” Scott said.

“The boss says you do, and I answer to the boss.” The man twirled the blade casually, and for a moment Scott was dazzled by the way it flashed in the light. “Now...tell me where Sector Five is staging its first assault.”

“I don’t know what or who Sector Five is, and I’m demanding you let me go.” Scott leaned forward, ignoring the strain in his shoulders, and caught the man’s gaze, held it.

“I know you’re lying to me,” the man said, and drove the knife into Scott’s thigh.

Scott let out a roar of pain and fury and lunged, sank his teeth into the man’s shoulder. The last thing he saw before he was knocked out was the man’s fist.

(343 words)